


The Design of a Fighter

by Eugenei



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Not Epilogue Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 17:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17492477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugenei/pseuds/Eugenei
Summary: After Harry mysteriously disappears during the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione is captured by Death Eaters. When Draco unexpectedly finds Hermione in a situation even he cannot ignore, Hermione ends up with unexpected allies and deep tests of courage as she navigates Voldemort's new world order.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one will be a slow burn, so beware if that's not your cup of tea!
> 
> This is a much darker and heavier piece compared to some of my other work, but I hope you all enjoy :)

Chapter 1

Deep, deep down a calling and a question came. Nothing more than a dream, and yet so real it felt.  _Come to me,_ it said.

_Not yet,_ she despaired, staving off the sweeping chill threatening to cover her body. Perseverance - she'd always had it in spades.

_But soon, soon you will know_. The voice was not a comfort.

_Know what?_ When she asked, she was submerged and a vision came, hazy, of a trickling stream apparently harmless but as she drew near to touch, she stopped. She knew it threatened to shatter everything in her world order. Her body and mind begged to know what called to her, but to know without experiencing - it was her preferred type of knowing. Safe and clear. Logical and neat.

So she fought and her stubbornness held out in dream after dream, night after night, always resisting the call she'd known since Harry's disappearance. Ever since -

"Mudblood!" The shriek of Bellatrix Lestrange shattered the still quiet in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor. "Mudblood it's time to wake up!"

Hermione Granger's eyes reluctantly opened and she turned, automatically, onto her side to face the stone wall beside her. Her hand grappled in the dark, before her fingers finally closed around a sharp pointed rock.

"Mudblood you better be upstairs in two minutes!"

The torches from the dungeon halls flared, now providing enough light for Hermione to see the etchings in the wall beside her. A series of tick marks stretched farther up the wall than she liked to think about. She sat up, rubbing out the stiffness in her neck before she reached up and dragged the rock in her hand against the stone wall. Another day in captivity. Four hundred and twelve.

She let the rock fall with a light clatter onto the floor and she stood, combining the movement with a futile gesture to brush the dirt of the floor off her person. Futile because she was always filthy - filth was in her nature. Now, her exterior rightly matched her interior. As below, so above. They reminded her of that every day.

Squaring her shoulders, she braced herself for another day serving the masters of Malfoy Manor. The property was, by now, 'Malfoy' in name only. It was run fully, and cruelly, by Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione had given up on any hope of escaping this infernal hellhole long ago. At one time, the daring and comforting schemes of escape would bubble to the surface of her mind, a sure sign of the fire still within her. Lately, she wasn't sure she had any fire left at all.

Upon opening the heavy wooden door to the first floor, Hermione found herself facing sets of floor to ceiling windows in a marbled hallway, showing the outside to be bathed in the first morning sunshine in what felt like weeks. No dreary, overcast clouds to hide the blazing sunrise in all its glory. It was almost inspiring. But Hermione couldn't linger and she couldn't be late. She followed the bright windowed hallway to the left until she met a set of grand double doors and opened them into a dreary, heavily curtained Great Hall. The room was of an antiquated style, with ornate decorations and lavish furnishings; it was clearly intended for the Lords and Ladies who lived here in the times that such titles were still acknowledged with fervor in the wizarding world, just like the muggle world. Such tendencies had been long out of fashion, but not for Bellatrix and the rest of the Death Eaters. As if inspired by Divine Right, she sat at the head of the hall, watching her most prized prisoner make the long walk to the end of the aisle to bow before her in sight of eight other masked Death Eaters.

Any warmth drained from Hermione's soul upon catching the particularly deranged gaze on Bellatrix's face this morning. Her dark soulless eyes honed in on her prey as the grandfather clock in the great hall chimed the hour with six booming tolls.

"You know what time it is, mudblood. Bow," she crooned, watching with a lazy, satisfied smirk as the younger woman bowed before her. It didn't take Hermione long to conform to this daily task, as the constant Crucios would have eventually driven her to the point of madness. With all else lost, Hermione was determined to keep her wits about her.

She kept her head down, having also learned never to meet Bellatrix's eyes unless directed.

"You will kneel, but raise your face to the ceiling. You are not to make eye contact nor look at any of us," Bellatrix stated.

"Some of you may recognize her, but all of you will know her name. Hermione Granger..." Bellatrix paused for the rustle of movement and the hushed whispers and gasps emitted from her audience. "...was captured over a year ago. Lucius had been keeping this little gem a secret for some time. I only discovered soon before his death...Potter's dear little mudblood, found! After four years on the run. Not surprisingly, Lucius did a poor job of breaking her in. But I've remedied that…" Bellatrix stepped down from her throne and took Hermione's jaw in her hands, pinching her thin, bony fingers sharply into Hermione's cheeks. At all costs, Hermione kept her eyes averted from the hideous and manic face, framed by a dried out mane of dull black hair, now looming above her own. "She's learned that the pureblood is mightier than the mudblood."

"Is she...tarnished?" one of the masks asked.

"Nothing more than this, here," Bellatrix said, holding out the bare arm on which  _Mudblood_ was still inscribed for all the rest to see. "In fact, you can watch as I renew it today."

Without the slightest warning, Hermione found herself prostrate on the floor. Her jaw collided with a bang off stone, sure to leave a bruise. Hermione knew what was coming, and knew it would be the worst time yet as she was then flung onto her back and her body forced into complete immobilization. She could sense Bellatrix standing beside her, only just out of reach.

"I like to remind her of what she is. This is, truly, my greatest handiwork to date, I must say."

An musty odour radiated from the wretched woman who then crouched over her, wrenching Hermione's arm out to the side of her body, palm up. Silent tears pricked at Hermione's eyes in anticipation of what was to come.

Bellatrix twirled a silver knife with a black smudge across the tip right in front of Hermione's face.

"This time we're using a mixture of Genthis poison and Verrabon serum." As Bellatrix spoke, Hermione could make out the scent of putrid sulfur rising from the smudge. Had Hermione been capable of moving, a struggle would have ensued. Genthis - a tiny scorpion like creature with venom that did not cause death, but the most excruciating pain where inserted into the bloodstream. As it was, all she could do was feel her heart rate quicken and her body fill with horror, incapable of being addressed. And the Verrabon would ensure she couldn't pass out, even if the pain became so intense her mind shut down. There was truly no escape.

"She will feel this for some time after," Bellatrix said loudly, now speaking to her audience. "Days, maybe weeks or even a month, depending on the strength of the venom. And I bet this is strong. It's always strongest in young ones, and I took this from one only two weeks old."

At first only the knife. With the first arch of the 'M' reopened, Hermione was foolish enough to begin thinking that maybe the mixture wasn't as potent as Bellatrix had hoped. By the time the second arch was completed, tears had started to pour silently from her wide open eyes.

"Ah yes, there it goes. Oh it's a powerful mixture, no doubt about that."

Her arm burned and it spread, spread even as far as her toes until her entire being felt consumed by an invisible fire. "Let's see how she does without the constraints, shall we?"

And then the charm was lifted and Hermione realized she had been silently screaming, as just as soon as the charm liften, her voice in a sharp and desperate cry broke the tense silence of the room. She tugged and twisted and contorted her body in an attempt to get away, but in the pain she found herself weak and utterly incapable of challenging the strength of Bellatrix, now halfway done with the word. So Hermione screamed louder, now begging for her to stop. Begging for someone, anyone, to step in and make it all just stop.

But of course no one did. No one moved or made a sound, not until Bellatrix was finally done and Hermione felt the last tug of the knife closing the 'D'. But even in the absence of the knife, a burning still coursed through her body.

"So much dirty blood," Bellatrix observed, running her forefinger over the wound, agitating the fresh opening. Hermione yelped and was smacked into silence.

"That's enough, mudblood." She flicked the blood into Hermione's face, and the warm liquid slid slowly across her upturned cheek. "I have quite the surprise for you today, little mudblood. There have been inquiries..." Bellatrix whispered.

_What kind of inquiries?_ Hermione would've vocalized aloud once. She might have even chanced a glance at the Death Eaters surrounding them, watching the display with keen interest. She couldn't tell from their faces, but the energy in the room was rife with curiosity, even desire.

As Hermione summoned her will to keep her mouth shut and eyes averted from her tormentors, she longed, not for the first time, for the days when Lucius Malfoy was still alive. So deranged was this woman that even Lucius Malfoy seemed decent.  _Decent._ A man who planted a horcrux on a little girl of eleven to just to stoke the fire in a decades long blood feud. That man was decent.

Hermione realized soon after her capture that Mr. Malfoy didn't keep slaves because it brought him joy. He did so because those were his orders - orders which over time, Hermione believed he cared less and less about carrying out. The Malfoy patriarch, despite the apparent victory of the pure blooded cause, lived in complete and utter misery. He hated his position, and from snippets of overheard conversation, it was clear he never regained his once high status with his Lord and Master. Most peculiar to Hermione was the indication he gave, privately, that he didn't even seem to care. Lucius Malfoy finished his days as a husk of a man, living like a ghost in his own home, doing the bare minimum to keep up appearances in front of other Death Eaters. Servants were only ever asked to come up for minimal cleaning of the house, when he thought visitors might drop in, checking up on his management. Sometimes, prisoners were called out for interrogations. These, Hermione learned on various occasions, were half hearted attempts at gleaning any information of use for finding Harry, who was still missing after four years.

But all of that changed the day he died - the last time any members of the Order tried to liberate the captives of Malfoy Manor. There had been so many casualties that day on both sides, but she knew the Order must have been weakened drastically after that valiant failure...Ron...Hermione had seen it, only moments after Lucius fell, a false flash of victory before every hope crumbled around her. She could still see the last light of his defeated, watery blue eyes fade in her dreams before the voice came, before that call to the unknown.

Bellatrix quite suddenly snapped her fingers and a mean little house elf materialized at her side.

"My Mistress has called?"

"Take her away and do as I instructed last night," Bellatrix ordered the taciturn elf. If Hermione should be afraid, she didn't have the capacity to feel it now.

"Yes, my Mistress," the elf said with a low, gallant bow.

The elf clutched her arm in it's cold, spindly hand and a second later, she landed on a surprisingly soft surface. In her muddled, pain addled state, she barely registered her surroundings - a serenely decorated room with a small bed covered in white linens, a cream chaise, and a vanity table.

"You will drink this," the elf said after she was guided to the bed. "For sleep."

In a healthy state of mind, Hermione would never have taken anything provided by the house elf of Bellatrix Lestrange, but sleep under any circumstances appealed to her desperate need to shut out all the pain coursing through her body.

* * *

A few hours later, Hermione woke to find another elf busying itself around the room.

"What was it you gave me to drink?" she demanded, sitting up on the be to watch the elf set out vials on the vanity table. She wondered because it couldn't have been a simple sleep potion she'd been given. Hermione felt better than she had in days. Four hundred and twelve days to be exact.

"Not the mudblood's business," it replied.

"Your Mistress couldn't have forbidden you to answer that question," Hermione said, pushing her luck. In fact, she knew Bellatrix likely wouldn't have told the elf one iota of truly important information.

The creature glared at her. "My Mistress said it was a rejuvenation potion," he replied coldly, hating to answer the questions of such a filthy human. "I know nothing else and wouldn't tell you if I did." Even the elves here were taught they were superior to muggle borns; the most wicked among them reveled in their only source of superiority to anyone or anything.

"Follow me," the house elf ordered.

Hermione followed the elf down a dimly lit hallway to a glittering candle-lit washroom.

"Bath. You have thirty minutes, then put this on," the elf ordered, tossing her a wrapped parcel and slamming the door shut as he left.

Hermione was left alone, wondering. She didn't consider how to use this time alone to her advantage - all thought of escape was futile now, she knew. Even if it had entered her mind, the window looking out over the grounds told her she must be at least three stories up, and therefore too high for escape. Had she even been able to escape, dementors surrounded the Manor and had for some time. But the blazing sun of the late afternoon also told her that they must not be out there today, which was odd. She wondered why that might be. And why that would coincide with her position, in this washroom, finally able to clear away the filth she'd accumulated. She wondered, but she didn't protest. To fail in doing what she was told would end in far greater disaster. So she bathed and then dressed, pulling on the robe from the parcel just in time for the elf to burst in without a knock.

"Quickly now," the elf said.

"Where are you taking -" but then the elf snapped it's fingers and she couldn't hear her own voice.

"No questions," the elf said. "More grooming and cleaning. Quickly now or we'll be late."

The elf disappeared, dragging Hermione in silent protest along with him.

They landed back in the room where Hermione had slept before.

She felt the robe fall from her shoulder and around her she sensed at least three elves working on her hair and attending to her makeup. Hermione balked silently as they started removing hair all over her body.  _Grooming._ Apparently grooming of all kinds and it was this that led to the first inkling of what must be in store for her tonight. They covered her in mild, sweet scented lotions and styled her hair so it fell in soft waves over her shoulders.

Hermione watched with zero satisfaction as her tired and dull appearance from living in the darkness of a dungeon transformed into soft, glowing beauty. The knots in her stomach tightened and shifted as the the elves wrapped her in a nearly sheer flowing, silky gown. There could be only one reason for the extent of this improvement.

"Let's go, we are almost late," the same ornery elf said, pinching Hermione's wrist in it's slender fingers. She didn't have time to protest. She hardly had the energy. She went to her doom feeling lower than any other moment in her life and it seemed that for the life of her, she'd lost the will to find the will to hope.

"Finally," Bellatrix hissed at the elf as they materialized in front of Bellatrix waiting quite anxiously outside a set of double doors through which music and conversation could be heard. "The guests are getting impatient."

"Sorry, Mistress," the elf said bowing low.

"Go inside and check on the refreshments," Bellatrix ordered and the elf scampered off.

"Such improvement," Bellatrix said, circling Hermione. "You will behave and you will do anything that I ask of you, is that understood?"

"Yes," Hermione replied, bowing her head.

"You know there will be pain if you resist. So I'd advise playing along."

"Yes," Hermione said again. She didn't need these affirmations to know what her fate would be if she resisted anything Bellatrix had in mind.

Bellatirx then led Hermione into the room, which was a brightly lit dance hall by the looks of it. In one corner a band played and in another food and drinks were offered in plenty. Around the entire perimeter of the room was a balcony with doors that led off to other parts of the Manor that Hermione had never seen. Hermione was ushered through the throngs of people and then placed Hermione in a chair on a platform at the head of the room. From there, Hermione sat alone, watching the party unfold around her and it didn't take long to realize the purpose of the gathering. Death Eaters filled the room, engaged in what they considered pleasant conversation, but there were others in the same style of robes as Hermione. Other slaves. Some walked arm in arm with particular Death Eaters as a display of ownership. Men too walked about in robes of the same colors, but flattering for the masculine form. All were there for one thing - to be sold and used for sexual favors with the Death Eater who bid the highest.

Just below Hermione's seat on the mocking throne, Bellatrix and Narcissa stood debating:

"Your husband is no longer here, Cissy," Bellatrix admonished, but then took on a softer tone. "I know you want them. I see it in you, in your eyes. Any one of them would have you, and they'd do anything you want. Because look at you..." It was true that Narcissa possessed a true beauty. But Hermione wretched at the truth in Bellatrix's words. There were more than a few muggleborn men here clearly hoping to be used by the powerful Malfoy matriarch.

"It has been some time…" Narcissa agreed as her eyes fixed on the tallest, broadest dark haired man in the center of the room.

"He is yours," Bellatrix crooned, following her sister's gaze.

"You! Johnston!" Bellatrix yelled out. Quickly the handsome man made his way to his master.

"Yes, Mistress?"

But Bellatrix stepped away and Narcissa moved forward. The man couldn't even hide the shock or desire from his expression. Narcissa led him to a private corner, where they proceeded to talk some and touch more. More couples had paired off and weren't making any attempt to hide their activities in the various corners and enclaves of the room. Some were kissing, others were getting handsy through their clothes, and Hermione could clearly see against the far wall, another muggleborn's top fully removed, as the pureblooded man pushed her to her knees before him.

"Now for the highlight of the evening," Bellatrix cooed with a frightening leer at Hermione before facing the crowded room. She magnified her voice and effectively brought the room to a curious silence. "Rumors have been circulating regarding the reason for tonight's gathering. It is because I have the pleasure of making the first bidding of a very special prisoner. Arguably the most valuable any of you will ever come across. One who will be worth the high price put on her flesh. The prized mudblood - Potter's own!" Bellatrix screeched with a high cackle.

"Hermione Granger will go to the highest bidder for the night! Yours play with as you wish!"

Lecherous eyes gazed greedily upon her person.

Reading the impatient tension in the room, Bellatrix reiterated: "But none shall touch until you have my permission. She will go to the highest bidder!"

None dared approach without the explicit permission of Bellatrix Lestrange, but it didn't make them any less menacing.

This was to be her ultimate humiliation. She dug deep in the recesses of her mind for how she could cope with this. Escape. Desperate and possibly deadly escape could be the only way. And her eyes roved, taking in every exit, every dark, hidden corner. Anyone who looked even just moderately weaker that she could use or manipulate for a way out. There were few, but a couple other prisoners who looked dead outside or just as uncomfortable as she was. She could try to communicate with them and come up with a plan. But she knew, ultimately, that it was no use. She had no wand, she had no power, and she had no connections. Alone she would meet her undoing; her defilement at the hands of one of the wicked men, or even women, in this room.

Her heart raced and her head throbbed. The stinging of the freshly opened cut in her arm was starting to resurface. Once more the urge to fight that for so long had only existed in her dreams pushed through into her waking mind, fought its way into her consciousness - but no matter how she considered it, she could see no way out.

Despair was about to take hold, and that was when she looked upward - only to feel her heart suddenly stop beating at the sight of who stood before her. None other than Draco Malfoy stood on a balcony, looking down upon the scene, upon her, and their eyes locked.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco Malfoy loathed his Aunt Bellatrix. No, loathed was too tame of a word. He resolutely believed that she deserved to be dead. She was an abomination. One that he despised more than any other person alive or dead - maybe even more than Voldemort himself. To think such a thing felt hyperbolic at first, but then, each and every time he encountered her, he felt certain that if afforded the opportunity, he would kill his Aunt over the Dark Lord. It was something to do with the long family history. His hatred for her didn't simply exist because of this war or because she suddenly arrived and mucked up the world he actually in hindsight enjoyed quite a bit. His hatred went far, far deeper than that, way back into his childhood. He knew from his first visit to see her in prison that he wished she wasn't a part of his family. Now, as he watched how she used the long leash Voldemort had afforded her for being such a blindly loyal follower, his revulsion reached unfathomable heights.

The grotesque display below wasn't exactly a surprise by any means. Since Potter's disappearance, the Dark Lord had taken countless mudbloods and blood traitors prisoner. Then he rationed them off to his followers for whatever work they deemed necessary. Draco suspected though, that if he knew to what extent all of his followers were also fucking them, he'd be far more concerned. It went beyond simple domination for some of them. It was a pleasure they had, and there was talk of a few even developing feelings for certain slaves. There is only so long that can go on without some attachments forming.

What disturbed him was that this was happening on his own property. He knew deep down that he had no one to blame but himself and he felt a stab of shame mixed with resentment pierce his heart. The property was under his name after his father's death, but he wanted nothing to do with the place so long as the memories from Voldemort's stay in his home continued to haunt him. He couldn't stand being in what was once his bright and happy childhood home for too long as it currently stood. The only time he returned was upon his father's death, and now, because he needed an artifact from his father's hidden collection of dark materials.

Out of courtesy, he knew he'd have to see his mother, but couldn't find her anywhere until he at last checked in the dance hall. As he stepped out on the balcony, he heard what was happening before he saw it, and he didn't even need to see it to know he'd be angry.

As he looked down at the scene, he considered just leaving without letting his mother know he'd stopped by. She was likely involved with one of the wretched slaves herself and wouldn't care to be bothered anyways.

He was fully determined to leave until he looked finally at the very front of the room and spotted the one woman sitting off by herself.

His jaw nearly dropped.  _Granger._

He'd nearly forgotten she was a slave in the Manor - had been for over a year - and an another wave of shame washed over him for having so neglected this aspect of managing his rightful property.

In the beautiful silk gown, she looked like a queen presented with a show for her. This was the joke of it all; the ultimate mockery when Bellatrix finally initiated the torture and debasement of Hermione Granger.

But for now, Granger sat poised and stared right at him. She seemed just as surprised to see him as he was to see her. And beneath her shock was a look of fear. She wasn't sure what would happen to her, either with the wretched Death Eaters in front of her, or with him. He'd seen it before with other slaves; they resist at first, but then can't help giving in. And her look of fear betrayed her character.

She was just as weak as the others were, deep down. She'd give in the same way.

His expression must have belied his thoughts because her eyes narrowed at him and she shook her head once. He could just about hear the persistent Granger of his childhood saying,  _Guess again, Malfoy. I'll die before I give in._

A sense of satisfaction swept into his mind. The Granger he knew was still in there and was still willing to persevere, even after more than a year of enslavement.

_She shouldn't be down there._

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he began debating with himself over whether or not he should get her out. He wasn't exactly sure why he thought she shouldn't be down there, and even more why he really didn't want her to go through this. She was enslaved. He had never thought twice about her condition in all this time. But seeing her down there, and with a spark of life still in her, he found himself needing to release her from this torment. It was as though his very being depended on it.

"The show is down here, mudblood," he heard his Aunt say. Without another moment's hesitation, he slipped behind the curtain on the balcony and made for the stairs.

He stepped into the room without warning, hoping to startle them all. He felt he'd achieved this aim as every Death Eater and slave looked at him in shock, as though he was the one in the compromising position. Granger was the only one who looked relieved, and even a little bit hopeful as she leaned forward in her seat, eyeing him with the brightest intensity.

_Yes, Granger, I'm here for you. Merlin help me,_ he thought to himself.

He crossed the room, his shoes clicking loudly in the silence that had fallen over the entire room. As he walked through the gathering, he ignored all of them but one. "Well, Mother, I see you've been keeping yourself busy since I've last been here."

His mother sat up in the chair and quickly covered up with her robes. She at least looked somewhat embarrassed at having been thus walked in on by her own son, but Draco thought she also looked mostly annoyed by the interruption.

"What do you want?" Bellatrix sneered. There was no love lost in this dynamic - he believed her cruel and she believed him weak. Even at formal gatherings they avoided one another. This intrusion Bellatrix took as the highest offense.

Draco simply ignored her and continued looking straight at his mother, who still sat tightly intertwined with the mudblood slave. She shrank slightly under his persistent gaze.

"I'll need to take the mudblood Granger with me," he said, trying to keep down the bile rising to his throat from the scene before him.

"I'm busy with her," Bellatrix hissed, demanding his attention.

"You have plenty of others to use," Draco pointed out, casting her his most derisive glance. "Her paperwork is under my name. She is a Malfoy slave before she is your slave, so if I say she leaves, she leaves." He knew this would trump anything Bellatrix could say, and she knew it too. As the Dark Lord organized his government, he'd grown keen on drafting and upholding contracts and laws regarding personal property - one of many crucial ways of maintaining order and peace among his followers in his new realm.

Bellatrix still tried in vain to protest, but he spoke over her. "Come with me, mudblood."


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione hardly cared what he called her.  _Mudblood._ The word meant nothing to her anymore. Safety and security - now those are two words that mean something real. She'd gladly go with him and hear 'mudblood' all day long if that meant safely getting away from Bellatrix once and for all.

"You'll pay for this later, mudblood," she heard Bellatrix hiss as Draco led her out of the hall.

Somehow she doubted that. There was something in Malfoy's subtle determination that convinced her she wouldn't have to worry about the blood thirsty woman ever again.

She followed him in silence down the familiar corridors and up multiple flights of stairs until they entered a room she'd never been permitted to enter.

"This is my quarter of the Manor," he said. "I was intended to take up my father's office and chambers after his death, but I left my mother with those. I didn't care to be reminded."

Hermione looked around at her surroundings - an office as dark as the rest of the house, but striking in that it wasn't suffocated by the same sinister atmosphere the rest of the mansion had taken on in the time since Lucius died. She turned to look at him, assessing him where he stood. Casually leaning against the now closed door, it was clear from how he carried himself, and even in how he decorated his chambers, that he'd in recent times taken a different turn than that of his family. But that smirk was still there, ever the same.

"You look terrible," he said.

She almost laughed. "What? You don't share your aunt's taste in dress robes?"

"Oh, not the dress. They cleaned you up very well." His eyes lingered at the top of her thighs, where the almost sheer dress generously hinted at the shadow of her body beneath. When he raised his eyes to probe her own once again, his spoke slowly, seriously. "I mean you - beneath all that."

She shrank inward. Trading insults, she could do - she even wanted to do. It was comfortable; it was how she should converse with Draco Malfoy. Childishly, she retreated to such tactics in an attempt to avoid discussing the diminished state of  _herself -_ whoever or whatever it was that animated the body she walked around in.

"Is this where you tell me I'm a hideous mudblood and always will be no matter how nicely they dress me up?"

He scowled and didn't relent in his probing stare. "Is this how it's going to be?"

"How what's going to be? You pulled me out of there and I've no idea what your motive is or what you've brought me here for. All I know is the first thing you've done is insult me, so what's changed?"

He took a deep breath and spoke with measured patience. "I mean you, the person beneath the skin. The ghost of yourself I see in your eyes there.  _You_ look terrible."

"Are you surprised? This is what happens when you're a slave," she just about sneered. He was forcing her out, right here at the beginning and she hated him for it.

"Of course it's surprising to see you, the high and mighty Hermione Granger, withered to a near shell of the person she once was."

"What's it to you? I've been here for over a year and you must've known."

Pushing himself up, he strode directly over to her in three long strides. He stared down at her intently, as though trying to see deep inside of her. Dwarfed by his tall frame, she suddenly thought  _Draco is no longer a boy. Not the boy I once knew._ His eyes were those of a hardened man; and his words were too. Who was this man who spoke of her soul, hidden and shriveled within her terrorized body?

"I was told you were here, back when you were first found. And then things happened that pulled me away and I quite frankly forgot all about you...but it's funny…" his voice was soft, calm, assured. There was no condescension, nothing like the way he used to address her, yet he was still far from warm. "I was asking myself the same thing when I saw you helplessly sitting down there. Why do I suddenly care?"

"Any theories to share?" she said after a prolonged silence.

"A few...It could just be that I hate my Aunt and don't want her to get what she wants. It was immensely satisfying to snatch her favorite shiny toy right from under her nose."

Hermione scowled. She'd been hoping for something more profound.

"But, I suppose," he continued, his voice lowering as he went on, so that she had to lean into him slightly to even hear him clearly, "it must be more than that...because I have no intention of this being our final meeting. In fact, I find myself thinking that I've no intention of leaving you here in the Manor. I could have a use for you," he said taking a step closer to her, almost touching, still watching her intently. He may have been talking quietly, but his tone was not gentle. If anything it put her on edge.

Hermione's eyes grew wide and she slowly started backing away. "No. You wouldn't...not after you just took me away from that. Not even you're that sick, Malfoy."

In anger, his eyes widened and he took a full step back. "Exactly. I'm not that sick. I'd never do that to you or anyone else. I'll never understand why they all do this with mudbloods and blood traitors alike."

"How typical of you. While simultaneously assuring me you'd never hurt me, you point out how repulsive I am. Are you not even remotely repulsed by the fact that it's not consensual?"

"Why can't I be repulsed by both?" he said with a shrug.

But as quickly as the flippant remark was made, a more pensive expression took hold of his features once again. "I ought to have taken everyone else away too then. Perhaps I'm excessively cruel for not doing so. But...we have this history together, don't we? And I suppose that's another reason I couldn't let my Aunt get away with it. You've always been so bloody high and mighty. To watch that happen would be like watching the last piece of our childhood slip away. To see you go through that would be like seeing you die."

For a moment, in his eyes, was the first glimmer of a deeper acceptance she'd ever seen from him. Hermione stared, dumbfounded.

But it was gone as soon as it appeared. He walked away from her and over to a corner table where tumblers and high quality whisky sat out.

"I wouldn't take that too personally," he said as he uncorked one of the glass canisters and lightly swirled the contents around before filling one short glass halfway.

"I know that, Malfoy," she said.

"Whisky?" he asked casually.

Hermione shook her head. It had been a long time since she'd had anything but water, so she refused to drink anything that could cloud her judgment just now. She already couldn't stand how calm and collected he was, and meanwhile she felt nothing but flustered from the time he started speaking.

"Come sit down at least," he said as he shook off his overcoat and laid it over the back of his chair in a fluid motion. He wore an all black suit, perfectly tailored from head to toe, and it contrasted sharply against his pale skin and light hair. The only bit of color was in a ring, worn on his right hand, that bore the Malfoy family crest offset by emeralds with a platinum band.

He threw back half of his drink as she walked over. While calm and composed on the outside, she knew full well that anyone slinging back whisky like that could only be a tortured mess on the inside.

When she sat down in the armchair across from him, he swirled his drink pensively in mesmerizing circles.

"I believe I owed you anyways. You helped save me one," he said softly. "I always imagined you regretted that." He looked at her with another piercing gaze, once again trying to read her every thought before it could be spoken. The swirling glass abruptly stopped. He waited.

Hermione thought about it, lowering her eyes to hide her thoughts, now swirling over feelings that compound and change as time passes. She didn't regret it, no. Certainly not now. She didn't even then. She knew Harry was right to go back for him in the Room of Requirement, because she too felt that he didn't deserve to die.

"No, I've never regretted it," she said, daring to meet his eyes as her thoughts settled on her truth.

A ghost of a smile formed on his lips for a fraction of a second before he downed the rest of his drink and then rose for another.

"I believe we are even then."

"So what happens when your Aunt decides to repay me for leaving against her wishes?" Hermione queried. They were even for now, but if she stayed here without him, things would only get worse for her.

"That won't be an issue," he assured her as he sat down again. "We're going to Prague. That's where I live now."

She furrowed her brow. "When?"

"You will be staying in my quarters, here, tonight. The doors are sealed off and no one can enter without my permission, which currently only you have. So while I'm out taking care of paperwork to get you moved, I'd suggest not leaving this area. This is the only place I can guarantee your safety at the moment."

"Why couldn't you just release me?" she demanded.

"Send you out to be captured again? And by someone not so understanding? I mean, that's your choice," he said slowly, a smirk forming on his mouth as though he knew he'd caught her where she couldn't say no. "But there is little chance you wouldn't be captured. And I guarantee you, if my Aunt caught wind, she'd pay any price to have you now. And you'd live to regret not coming with me."

Hermione watched him carefully. This just didn't make any sense to her unless he was up to something else. "Why would you want to protect me? Why bother?"

He cocked his head and looked at her. "What a waste it would be to get you away from here only to have you returned so soon. Also, I can hardly release you out into the open. You are one of Voldemort's prized detainees. I'd be punished severely for it."

There had to be more to it. There simply must be. "But -"

"Any other question you have I'm certain your over active, obnoxiously intelligent brain can work out for itself," he interjected. "For now, I must go arrange your transfer to my own estate and provide reasoning to the Dark Lord. I'll show you where you can sleep," he said as he stood up. On the far side of the office, he opened a door on the far left side of the room. She followed, and found herself in a bedroom, decorated similarly to the office and with the largest bed she'd ever seen in the center. She wanted to believe he might be genuine in his offer to keep her safe. But she couldn't be sure.

"How do I know you aren't leading me into something far worse than here?" she demanded, rounding on him, where he stood leaning against the door.

"That's a risk you going to have to take. Good-evening, Granger," he said smugly before abruptly leaving. The door clicked shut with finality in his absence.

* * *

Hermione woke up early the next day within the large bed. She'd easily stayed tucked on one side, and the rest of the bed was completely untouched. When she got up, she reached for the robe she'd cast onto the floor that night before going to sleep, but found that it wasn't there. Instead she found a pile of towels and a tray of food on the table beside her. The towels meant another shower. She'd had maybe two showers in the span of a year and here she was getting two within twenty-four hours. Leaving the food for later, she quickly showered and changed into the set of clothes lying on another table by the wardrobe - a simple blouse and jeans with a pair of brown oxfords on the floor nearby. Clearly her days of slave clothes were over, and this was a promising sign.

Once showered and dressed, she walked out into the study she'd been in yesterday. She was surprised to find Draco in his clothes from yesterday, sleeping on the couch. He'd given up his bed for her. He'd been a gentleman. On top of that he hadn't touched her and had only offered her safety. But she knew his offer must be too good to be true. It was the case with most things, especially when offered by Death Eaters.

He must have been sleeping lightly because he stirred and opened his eyes. Upon seeing her, he immediately sat up.

"Good, you're awake," he said as he appraised her in the new clothes.

He walked over to the desk on which sat a large, padlocked chest. It couldn't have been too heavy because he picked it up easily and then walked over to where she stood.

Finally, she was leaving this place. No more cleaning up after the Death Eaters and no more living in the squalor of a cold, damp cell in the dungeon. She wasn't sure what she was going to, and she still couldn't quite believe it was Draco Malfoy taking her away, and that she was trusting him. But he was right, they shared a history. A terribly history, yes, but it was clear after years of war, that even a terrible history could be overlooked for the comfort of a familiar face from happier times. No, he hadn't been behind any of those happier times, but she was better off taking a chance on him than staying here forever.

With no ceremony or time for awkwardness, he wrapped his arm around her waist and immediately she felt that familiar pull of apparition.


End file.
